


Peter Nureyev and the Wheel of Fate

by onetiredboy



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, So I made it myself, flustered peter nureyev, i needed the teen peter content so badly, peter had little social contact growing up so he was an awkward teenager, peter nureyev has been sad and lonely all his life, teen peter nureyev
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 01:29:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21028031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetiredboy/pseuds/onetiredboy
Summary: Brahma itself was well-loved by its inhabitants. Families, mostly; mothers and children, newly-weds, academics who wanted to spread their wings away from the usual distractions of less peaceful planets, those born here and those not. Strangers greeted others in the street with small curtseys and practised smiles, bows or kissed hands, and it worked like clockwork.It was impossibly perfect, and Peter Nureyev, a tall, lean boy of 17, sitting in an abandoned house-cum-hideaway, tucked far enough back from the window that he couldn’t be seen from outside but not far enough that he couldn’t see out, hated it.





	1. the first

**Author's Note:**

> [concierge voice] if you enjoy this tale, please leave a kudos and comment, and consider checking out my other fics and subscribing!

The planets of the Outer Rim, they say, are the most dangerous part of the solar system to be in. 

This is to be expected, of course. Planets that far out, so close to the boundaries of human colonisation, are expected naturally to collect only two kinds of people: those poor, desperate, or exiled enough to scrounge their way there; and those rich, corrupt, or giddy enough at the prospect of having a lower class to oppress to follow them. And with the war so close, slowly pressing in on planets and drawing all kinds of sadists and storm-chasers, an inevitable cocktail, a mixing of the boundaries of human personality, is all simply common sense. The planets of the Outer Rim — the most dangerous part of the solar system. 

All except for Brahma. 

Brahma was rated five years in a row as ‘The Universe’s Most Boring Planet’ by _ Integalactica Spectacula, _the magazine of choice for upper class gossipers solar system-wide. No murders in the last ten years, no armed robberies — it was the only known planet in existence to not even have any recorded incidents of tax fraud. 

It was so boring it should have been illegal, _ Integalactica Spectacula _ said. After all, at least a whole society breaking the law for too little law breaking would be interesting. Until then, though, _ Integalactica Spectacula _ advised, it simply wasn’t exciting enough to be worth a visit. What use was a planet that didn’t keep the age old values of corruption and petty theft to heart? What on Earth could possibly be the point of living somewhere where you don’t have to check a room for exits when you enter? The quicker the war got to Brahma, the better, the _ Integalactica Spectacula _ concluded: that was, as long as the planet didn’t bore the fighters so much that they started believing in something as dull as peace. 0/10. 

Despite being almost unlawfully uneventful, Brahma itself was well-loved by its inhabitants. Families, mostly; mothers and children, newly-weds, academics who wanted to spread their wings away from the usual distractions of less peaceful planets, those born here and those not. Strangers greeted others in the street with small curtseys and practised smiles, bows or kissed hands, and it worked like clockwork.

It was impossibly perfect, and Peter Nureyev, a tall, lean boy of 17, sitting in an abandoned house-cum-hideaway, tucked far enough back from the window that he couldn’t be seen from outside but not far enough that he couldn’t see out, hated it.

He sighed, “Tell me about Yanga.”

“Daydreaming of other planets again, Pete?” 

The second voice was that of Mag. A large man with yellow-owl eyes that creased at the corners as he smiled. Peter glanced at him for a moment, and then looked back outside, “You can’t blame me, can you?” 

Mag’s gaze followed Peter’s. On the other side of the street there was a family. A woman in a long, pretty skirt was holding hands with a toddler around four years old, whose other hand was latched tightly to another woman in an equally pretty dress. Peter watched as the child began to cry and wail. One woman swept them up, hugging them close to her chest, as the other swept the sky above for any sign of Brahma’s infamous peace-keeper. Peter wasn’t sure if the anger he felt was directed at the war machine floating in the sky, or at what that little toddler had. 

“No, I suppose I can’t, even if it is distracting you from the task at hand. Come on, I want to start our daily lesson.” 

“Oh _ Mag _, not now,” Peter begged. There was only one thing he hated more than the fear-induced perfection of Brahma’s cookie-cutter streets, and it was this. “I’m a thief in training, not an art student, I don’t need—“ 

“Calypso Hawthorn, biography. Go.”

Peter rolled his eyes and folded his thin arms across his chest. The long hair he’d been meaning to cut flipped over one shoulder, “Calypso Hawthorn was born 2867 on Rama, an Outer Rim planet destroyed by the war seventeen days ago, was placed into advanced schooling at three years old due to artistic prowess, graduated at fourteen with the iconic piece As The Sun Rises Over Venus, So Too Do I, a subversive take on adolescence and gender expansiveness, was granted a million creds until it was found out that their piece was a copy of—“ 

“That’s enough,” Mag put a hand up and Peter sunk down lower in his chair, already rehearsing the upcoming lecture.

“Pete. Thievery is an art form. It takes an artist’s imagination, a painter’s attention to detail, a sculptor’s finesse, a—“

“A poet’s rambling, too, apparently,” Peter mumbled, “No wonder you’re a master at it.” 

“Peter,” Mag’s voice was stern now, but not unkind. He leaned on the table towards him, “What has gotten into you today? It’s not like you to be this antsy.”

“I know, Mag, it’s just— can’t we do this tonight? I’ve got plans today, and your lessons take—“ 

“Plans!” Mag cut him off with a disbelieving chortle, “Oho! And just how do you expect to enact these plans with New Kinshasa reigning above? You know how those brutes think of the likes of you— just remember your first eight years on this planet! Thieving to survive, escaping the lasers of the law as if it wasn’t their precious Guardian Angel System who put you in that position in the first place! Killing your father, leaving you a victim of the self-fulfilling cycle of oppr—“ 

“I’m already on your side, Mag, you don’t need to give me the spiel again. I don’t care what you say, I’m faster than you at escaping by now, if it comes to that. I’m going out,” Peter stood up from the chair he was in, a teenager’s defiance in his actions. 

“Finish your lesson, Peter,” Mag instructed, force to his voice.

Peter ignored him, turning away and making for the door. He was halfway there, scooping up his concealable handbag from the rack by the door when Mag said—

Peter stopped in his tracks. He spun around, his eyes wide, “_What _?”

Mag smiled winningly, taking his time as he settled himself back into his chair and brushed down his vest, “I said,” he dragged out, “You’re hardly going to impress the boy you’re sneaking out to go and see with an attitude like that.”

Peter stared at him, mouth hanging open. After a moment, he sputtered indignantly, “_ Excuse _ me? How dare you—“ 

“Oh, come off it, Pete, you really think I didn’t notice?” Mag grinned broadly at him with white-yellow-brown teeth, “You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at the son of the dignitary we stole from? The one who told you it was a pleasure to meet you and with those words alone turned you the exact shade of red you are right now?”

“I’m not—!” 

“And correct me if I’m wrong, Pete,” Mag continued over the top of him, holding a hand up as if to gesture that it is his time to speak, “But is the lipstick you’re wearing not the very same one you saw on that woman that the dignitary’s son pointed out and said looked nice? The... _ exact _ same?” 

“I—!” 

“And really, Pete, two days ago you told me you were thinking about cutting your hair. Your hair, Pete! The same hair that, right up until that boy told you would look good on you short, you wouldn’t let me so much as look at while holding scissors. Ah yes, and this,” Mag reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out something that crinkled. A piece of paper. 

Peter saw a flash of red cursive writing as Mag unfolded it and his hand shot to his pocket, “You stole that from me!” 

“Dear Peter,” Mag began to read, “You probably won’t be on this planet for long, having such an important role to play, but from the moment you walked in today I was struck by your—Ah!” 

Peter was on the table in seconds, his quick fingers snatching the letter out of Mag’s hand and crumpling it up, “That’s mine!” 

“And what have I taught you about leaving important documents intact, Pete? Hmm? You probably wanted to keep it, didn’t you? That sentimental nature of yours is going to get you in trouble one day.” 

Peter scoffed, standing back up and tucking the note into his pocket. He scoffed, “Alright then. If you knew what I was doing, why not say it from the start?” 

“Just wanted to see what lengths you would go to try and hide it from me, Pete.” 

“God, you’re insufferable, Mag.” 

Mag grinned at him. Then he stood up from the table and walked around to slap Peter on the shoulder, “You don’t mean that, boy. Besides, I give you my blessing.” 

“Oh thank God,” Peter drawled, “I was so worried.”

“I always wondered how you’d shake out: boys or girls or both,” Mag continued, ignoring Peter’s fake gag, “I’m proud of you! It’s about time you got out there. Why, at your age, Pete, I was visiting two or three girls’ rooms a night!” 

“That’s disgusting, Mag.” 

“Let me give you some advice before you go,” Mag patted him hard on the shoulder again, “I may have no experience with, well, men, but the same fundamental principles apply!”

Peter glanced out the door of their hideout where, in a park a few streets away, he knew a certain dignitary’s son was going to meet him within the hour. He shifted from foot to foot, then sighed. “Fine. Quickly, though. I have to get going.” 

“That’s my boy,” Mag ruffled his hair, “Now. Let me teach you how you introduce yourself to someone you want to woo.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Peter Nureyev slipped, unnoticed by the hulking rock far above him, out of his hideaway and down the street toward the park nearby. He had redone his lipstick, his hair was not cut but out around his shoulders (it looked better like that than up, he thought). He was trying out heels, too — not his usual style, and Mag had warned him that, being that he stood at six foot without them, they may have been a little too much — but they definitely boosted his confidence. 

Quince Blythe, son of a dignitary Peter had stolen the plans for the Guardian Angel System from not 24 hours before, was not hard to spot. He was sitting on a swing swaying gently, his curly blond hair a cotton-fluff against his dark skin, which was littered with light-brown freckles. Peter got ten metres away before he looked up. 

“Pete!” 

_ Oh, _ Peter thought. _ So this is what love feels like. _

Well, to be fair, he wasn’t sure what love was, not really. And there was one part of him that knew despite the fairy tails that love didn’t happen at first (or, technically second) sight. But from what he’d heard, _ this, _the thumping against his ribs and the grin plastered on his face…This was pretty much it. 

“Mr. Blythe,” Peter bowed as politely as he could. 

Quince laughed and Peter felt his ears turn red as he straightened back up, “What?”

“What are you, forty-five? It’s Quince, Pete, and you don’t have to _ bow _ to me.” 

“I—Right!” Peter smiled, “Of course, sorry, I—” 

Quince narrowed his eyes at him, “Have you… never been on a date before?” 

“What? No, of course, I— I’m seventeen, Quince, I—” Peter cut himself off, clearing his throat to restart his voice. He was better than this— he was Peter Nureyev! Teen thief, master of disguise, and he could disguise himself as whoever he wanted. Including a very charming young man. “So…” he began again, “This _ is _a date, then.”

Something about the way Quince smiled at him made Peter think that this may be the one disguise he was failing to embody. “Yes, it’s a date, Peter. I said that in my letter.” 

Peter blinked, “Right.” 

“The letter that I sealed with a kiss.” 

“Right.” 

”I like your lipstick by the way,” Quince added, nudging him with his shoulder, “That shade of red almost perfectly matches your face.” 

“Oh, _ God, _” Peter put a hand to his face, feeling the heat in his cheeks with the back of his hand, “It’s really that bad, isn’t it?” 

Quince laughed. “Don’t worry about it. It’s cute. Now come on, I know the owners of this cafe down an alleyway…”

Peter let Quince lead him, his mind bouncing off the walls at both the delighted stream of giggles Quince let out every time Peter said something that he honestly meant but was apparently very funny, and the feeling of Quince’s fingers, which had weaved down between them to grab hold of his hand. So he hadn’t quite started it right, but, Peter figured, all things take practise, and as far as first dates go he thanked his lucky stars he was having his with a boy who apparently found his inexperience very amusing. 

It got easier as the afternoon wore on. Quince ordered them a milkshake and placed two straws in it, which was apparently an old Earth tradition. Earth was the most boring of all planets to pick a tradition to emulate — like picking playing a _ human _in tabletop VRRPGs — but, well. Peter took a sip of his side of the milkshake and then so, suddenly, did Quince, and when their noses brushed Peter thought only to thank those primitive beings for setting up this particular moment from hundreds of years in the past.

They got food and then the teenage romance was brushed aside for a much more intense sensation — teenage hunger — and they barely talked in the ten minutes it took for them to devour their meals. 

“Must be hard for you,” Quince said when he’d swallowed his last mouthful, waving a hand, “Working for the government, planet hopping all the time.” 

“Ah,” Peter wiped his mouth with a napkin while he thought of how to change the subject. “Well. I can only _ imagine _how it must be, being the son of a dignitary.” 

“Terrible, that’s what,” Quince groaned, “All the time it’s meetings this, meetings that. Then when he finally does have time it’s all _ let’s talk about the people you like! _ and _ let’s go holo-fishing!, _ like. Really? He’s spent so long away he doesn’t even _ know _how to interact with a seventeen-year-old.” 

Peter laughed sharply, something bubbling up in him and out of his throat, “_ Well. _ Consider yourself lucky you get to have a father at all. A lot of us don’t.” 

Silence fell knife-sharp between them. Quince stared at him. 

“You… You do have a father, don’t you?” he asked, his brow creasing, “I mean, I thought that man you were with yesterday— Mag? He’s—”

“I didn’t say _ me _, I just said— people. A lot of people don’t,” Peter corrected himself. He folded one leg over the other, “I… just like to remember to be grateful for what we have, is all.” 

“…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I wasn’t.” 

Peter’s napkin was crumpled in his fist. He put it down on the table, sighing. There was something bad building up in his stomach: twice now, he’d had to lie about his life, and with each one it became clearer that Quince’s date was a sham; a persona invented. The man Quince was interested in was a character sheet breathed to life. Peter felt anxiety grip him, could see a glimpse of a long life as an infamous fugitive: one spent entirely as other people. One spent entirely, utterly, alone. 

“How do you feel about the Guardian Angel System?” Peter blurted. 

Quince blinked at him, clearly shocked by the sudden turn in conversation. “Honestly…?” he leaned back in his chair, thinking for a moment, “Honestly…” he sighed, leaning forward on the table between them suddenly, “Honestly, Peter, I— I don’t know. I know that Brahma is the safest planet in the solar system, and maybe I’m just trying to find a reason to rebel against my Dad but I keep thinking— I don’t know. That kind of murder, without giving people half a chance to a fair trial—” 

Peter stood up from the table, “Let’s go.” 

“What?” Quince said, but Peter just reached his hand out to him. 

“Come on. I want to show you something.”

They left the right amount of creds on the table and escaped down the alleyway outside together. Peter glanced above them hesitantly as he sped-walked, trying to scour out where New Kinshasa’s all-judging eye was hanging over the top of the city at the moment. He pulled Quince into a doorway — the most the officers up there would think is that they were finding a place to discreetly make out.

“I’m not a government official,” Peter said. 

“_ What _?” Quince stepped away from him, breathing hard from how fast Peter had led him down the street, “What do you mean?”

And so Peter told him everything. That he was a thief, a vigilante. That he had grown up on the streets alone until Mag, that together they were making plans to bring down New Kinshasa and free the people on both worlds from the tyranny that forced them into uniformity and justified mindless murder in the name of creating a world that could never grow, never learn. Quince stared at him with stars in his eyes while he told the whole thing and Peter felt his heart swell in his chest. No, he didn’t have to do this alone. Not if he found the right people — Mag had found _ him _after all, right? And there were plenty more who would know the truth, who would be willing to fight for it.

The afternoon wore on into night. They ended up back in the park where they started, Quince’s fingers wound tightly into Peter’s despite the fact their hands had long past sweaty, Quince’s head on Peter’s shoulder despite the fact he had to stretch to make it. 

“You have to go?”

Quince sighed, “My Dad will kill me if I’m not in bed by curfew. Life as a dignitary’s son — it’s red tape all the way down.” 

Peter sighed, letting go of Quince’s hand reluctantly to throw himself into the swing theatrically and begin to push, “Can I see you again?”

“Course. I’ll make sure of that,” Quince sat down in the swing beside him. Peter stopped swinging so that they could link pinkies in the space between the two swings.

Something shifted in Peter’s chest; anxiety. “You’re not… going to tell the police, are you?”

“And get you killed? Even if I disagreed with what you’re doing, Pete, which I don’t, I’m not a murderer.”

Peter smiled, “Thank you.”

“You’re a hero, Pete. Just think of how the world will treat you when they find out you freed two whole planets! They’ll sing songs about you.”

Peter laughed, “I hope not. All I know is…” Peter leaned his head against the chain of the swing, staring up at the underside of New Kinshasa above them, “I know, when they see what I’ve done— when my family see what I’ve done… they’ll come find me. And I don’t mean to settle, no!” He sat up properly, reaching his arms up towards the sky, “I want to see it all, Quince. I want to travel the universe and save as many people as I can. But…” he relaxed again, “But it would be nice to have a reason to come back, every now and then.” He looked at Quince, “Other than you, of course.”

Quince smiled, “Of course. I can’t wait, Peter. It’s going to be incredible.”

“I know.”

Quince stood up from the swing he was in and stretched back, “But until that day, I still have to listen to my Dad’s stupid curfew rules.”

Peter laughed, standing up as well, “Alright. I’ll walk you to the edge of the park.”

“I’ve had a good day with you, Peter,” Quince said as they walked, their shoulders brushing.

“I’ve had… the _ best _day,” Peter replied, and Quince smiled and stopped walking.

Peter stopped as well, turning to face him. There was something in Quince’s eyes that made his heart flutter. How was it that dates ended? Was a kiss on the first date common? Unexpected? Was he supposed to ask? Mag had said to go for it whenever _ the moment felt right _. Well, the moment had felt right only every single time Quince looked at him, and Mag’s advice had already mortified him once today.

“I like you, Peter,” Quince’s hands came to rest on Peter’s slender waist, and then they reached up to the collar of his shirt. “Lean down. I can’t kiss you all the way up there.”

Peter giggled, embarrassingly goofily and high-pitched, and he let Quince’s hands pull him down by the collar until he was leaning down enough that Quince could release one hand and hold the side of his face instead. 

There was a second. Quince looked Peter in the eyes and Peter felt his whole ribcage tighten, and then Quince smiled softly and leaned closer and— kissed him. 

It took half a second for Peter to remember to close his eyes, and also to— do literally anything other than just stay still and let Quince kiss him. He tried to kiss back before realising he had no idea, not really, of how kissing was meant to work, and then… it was over. 

Quince laughed softly and buried his head in Peter’s chest. “I’m guessing that was your first kiss, huh?” 

“That obvious?”

“We’ll work on it.”

Peter laughed, his heart twirling happy little circles and his lips buzzing. Quince leaned back from him and kissed his cheek. “Goodnight, Peter. I’ll see you around.”


	2. the second

Peter closed the door of the hideout behind him and hung his handbag up on the rack nearby, and he was humming. Peter Nureyev was usually silent; a master of stealth, of secrecy, and right now… he was humming. He pulled off his shoes and walked further into the house, planning on getting to his room before Mag could intercept and ask him invasive questions. This plan was foiled when he walked into the kitchen and saw Mag sitting there. The hum died in his throat.

Mag raised two bushy eyebrows at him, “It went that well, huh?”

“Oh, what on Earth do you mean?” 

“Well, you’re grinning like you just pulled off the heist of the century.”

Peter hadn’t noticed that. Another thing he was usually good at — keeping his face flat and his emotions hidden and—oh, what was the point? He didn’t care what he looked like right now. He just shrugged a thin shoulder in response to Mag and smiled wider, “It was alright.”

Mag laughed, “So I gathered, lover boy.”

“Oh, don’t tease me, Mag, I’m not in the mood,” Peter waved him off and continued on to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He got as far as taking two steps before falling into the makeshift mattress in the corner, giggling softly into the fabric of his sleeping bag.

After a moment, Peter rolled onto his back and stared up at a hole in the ceiling. He breathed in deep, coughed when the smell of mildew filled his nose and interrupted the floaty-good feeling a little bit, and then sighed it all back out again. God, it would be stupid of him to reenact that kiss, wouldn’t it? He’d have to be some kind of an idiot to do something like that…

Peter raised his fingers to his lips and traced over them, trying to recreate the feeling of that  _ moment _ , the warmth of Quince Blythe and the tingle that had spread through his body as their lips pressed…

His bedroom door opened.

“Argh!” Peter shot up, glaring daggers at Mag, “ _ Mag!  _ What do you  _ want _ ?”

“Hey! Calm down,” Mag invited himself in, sitting down at the edge of Peter’s mattress as if it didn’t sag under his weight. “I just want to talk to you.” 

“Haven’t you done enough  _ talking  _ for the day?” Peter hissed at him, “Your advice,  _ by the way _ , was the biggest embarrassment of my afternoon. Nobody’s started a date that way in over four decades, you fossil.”

“Ah, well. That would explain my luck in the bars of late.”

Peter groaned and rolled onto his side, facing the wall: that’s all it was with Mag. Bars and girls and cheap dates. He’d probably never had a kiss like  _ that  _ in his whole life, had someone look into his eyes and make his stomach flip. Mag was all lust where Peter had  _ love _ . Love to give, love to get. 

“Peter,” Mag said, and his voice was a brand of serious it rarely was, “You know the kind of work you and I do.” 

“Mmgh,” Peter responded, his face buried in his sleeping bag. 

“The job you and I have— the life we must lead, one of vigilance and heroism, one confined to the shadows… People like you and me, Pete, we make sacrifices. More than most.” 

There was a sinking feeling gaining momentum in Peter’s stomach. “Do you have a  _ point _ , Mag? Or are you just waxing poetic at me for fun?”

Mag sighed. His big hand brushed over Peter’s leg on the bed, patting him comfortingly, “I don’t want you getting attached to this boy, Pete. I know it seems like fun at first. It always does. It did for me, too. But relationships, they need—  _ time.  _ Commitment. Things we… we can’t afford to give. Not with the revolution so close.”

Peter said nothing to that. 

“I know you, Pete, you’re my boy after all. And I’m very proud of you for being out there, getting new experiences. But you’re a thief at the end of the day, not a romantic like I know you’d like to believe. And if you really keep believing that, Pete, one of these days, you are going to get very badly hurt.”

There was silence in the room for a while. Mag sighed, and then stood up, groaning as he did so. “I’m glad you had a good day, Pete. I’ll see you for dinner in an hour or so.”

Then Peter was alone. 

He hugged his sleeping bag to his chest and frowned into it. Mag was wrong. Mag was often wrong, but this time Peter knew he really was. Of course he could be both things; a thief and a boyfriend — a lover and a fighter. He was  _ Peter Nureyev _ , teen prodigy, with a potential yet unleashed upon the world. The world had never experienced anything like him, and so how could the normal rules possibly apply?

But it didn’t quite settle the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not quite.

Things went very quickly for Peter Nureyev after that. 

The revolution made advancements. He caught one or two glimpses of Quince Blythe but nothing substantial, no more secret meetings, no more kisses. Mag hatched a plan. New Kinshasa was infiltrated. 

_ “Don’t… walk away from me! I’ll do it! I swear I will!” _

Peter found a connection to his family, and then lost it twice as hard. 

_ “Oh Mag. Mag, Mag…” _

He came out of the deal down a father figure, down a vision of the future, and down a name. But at least with Brahma down a sky-based oppressor as well. The police had a warrant for him out in minutes — he glanced over it on his comms as he made a break for the ship waiting outside New Kinshasa and used the blunt end of his knife to send Mag’s contact sprawling into the ground beneath it. 

He had to escape. Peter sat himself down in the pilot’s seat of the ship and reached for the controls before realising he couldn’t see. His eyes were filled with tears, his hands trembling. He did not know what this meant for Peter Nureyev. All he knew was that he was not ready for this.

Peter forced back his tears and pushed very hard back against the memory of Mag. It would be minutes before the officers found this ship and once they did Peter would have no way off of Brahma unseen. The ship’s engines began to roar. He had to make his escape, and fast, but first… First.

First, he wanted one last moment of being Peter Nureyev. One moment before he left it all behind for good, where he could believe for just one second that today hadn’t happened at all. And plus, he felt like he owed it not to disappear. Not this time.

* * *

“Peter!” Quince exclaimed when he opened the door, a smile breaking his pretty skin in two and showing off his gorgeous teeth. “I wondered when I’d see you next. You finally cut your hair!”

Peter reached a hand to the back of his head. He’d forgotten, somehow, that he did that a few weeks ago. It felt like he’d always had hair that short now, things had changed so much. He stepped inside. 

“Hey,” Quince frowned as he led him into his bedroom, closing the door behind them, “Are you alright, Pete?”

Peter had parked the spaceship somewhere hidden. He had sat there for an hour in silence: too stunned to cry. He felt like he would be for a while. Mag’s death hadn’t sunk in yet but he had a feeling that when it did things wouldn’t be alright for a while. So he’d decided to do this now, before the crash. While he still had a moment he could push all of that aside and just be… happy. He wasn’t sure when he’d get the chance for that again. 

“Yeah,” Peter said quietly. “Yeah, I’m… Sorry,” he remembered what he was here for, and took a deep breath. He let it out in a laugh, turning to Quince and smiling as brightly as he could, “I’ve had a long day, Quince. I don’t really want to talk about it. I just want to take my mind off of it.” 

“Oh?” Quince raised an eyebrow, “Is that so? I think I can help with that…” 

Peter laughed, and Quince laughed too. Then he leaned over and kissed him, softly. It was less fumbling than last time, Quince’s hand finding Peter’s on the bed between them as he kissed him. When Quince pulled away, he smiled, leaning his head on Peter’s shoulder, “I missed you.” 

Peter closed his eyes and let himself feel it: the old flutters, the warmth in his chest. He focused on it, let it grow inside him, and smiled, “I missed you, too.” 

“We should go on a date today. A cafe. The fair. Wherever you want. We can steal from my Dad again and take his creds. We can— Pete.”

Peter laughed again. Soggy this time, tear-filled — all that building up and it had only taken seconds for it all to come back down again. “Sorry,” he moved himself away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Quince stared at him, “Peter… what’s—”

“I’m leaving Brahma,” Peter said, drawing himself up and fighting the tears away. “I came to say goodbye.”

Quince’s face fell, “Oh.”

Peter blinked and glared across the room, looking away from the expression on Quince’s face so that he wouldn’t be tempted into crying. He folded his arms over his chest, “I don’t want this to be sad. I don’t want to be sad.”

“You really have to go, huh?”

Peter nodded, sniffling.

“Does it have something to do with your… thief thing?”

Peter nodded again.

“Will… you be back?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said quietly. 

They sat in silence for a while. Peter regained his composure and cleared his throat. He forced himself to look back at Quince and smile at him. “Of course I’ll be back. I might not have family here but I have you. And that’s reason enough.” 

“Well,” Quince said at last. His hand found Peter’s and he smiled softly, “Then it’s not goodbye forever. But it’s goodbye for now. We better make this last meeting count then, huh? Not let it just be tears and wallowing.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, nodding, “Yes. A happy goodbye. Please, that’s what I want.” 

“Okay.”

Quince Blythe was so handsome. Eighteen years old, blonde hair and galaxy-eyes. Peter softened just by looking at him. It was too painful to think about what Mag would say right now— what horrible advice he would give — so Peter didn’t. He focused on the fluttery feeling instead, and Quince brushed his fingers over the side of Peter’s face and kissed him again, long and slow. 

“Peter,” he said when they parted.

“Yeah?”

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

Peter laughed sharply then, shaking his head, “Fine, rub it in, why don’t you?” 

Quince laughed, “I’m not making fun of you, I’m trying to have an important moment here—” he broke himself off laughed softly, his eyes locking with Peter’s. “Peter… I want you to remember me after you’re gone off of this planet. Once you’re out in the stars, liberating planets across the universe.”

Peter had this feeling there was a message here he was supposed to be getting that he was certainly not. 

“Peter…” Quince said softly, and then he laughed in disbelief, “You don’t get what I’m saying, do you?” 

Peter grinned sheepishly, “Not quite.”

“Everybody always remembers their first,” Quince said quietly, kissing the side of Peter’s mouth, “And I don’t want you to forget me, no matter what planet you’re on.” 

Peter got the message. He felt his face go red, “Oh.” 

“But Peter,” Quince’s hands grabbed Peter’s and he stared into his eyes firmly, “Only if that’s what you want.” 

Peter stared at him for a moment. Then he swallowed and nodded, “Okay. That— that sounds… well, I mean. That sounds good.” 

Quince laughed and kissed him… and kissed him again, and kissed him again after that, and the rest, well. The only important bit was at the end, as Quince pressed a kiss into the side of Peter’s mouth and murmured, “I love you, Peter Nureyev. I love you.” 

Peter left Brahma that night.

He changed a lot over the years. He grew a little bigger, a little meaner. He carved his way through the solar system thieving and hunting and piece by piece weaving together his legacy. He matured a lot; there were no more boys like Quince, no more fantasies of love and romance, no matter what tricks his treacherous heart tried to pull on him. There were other lovers, sure, but the person they had slept with didn’t exist by the next morning; he had shed off that shame like he’d shed off that skin, and over time Peter forgot he ever believed in any other kind of love. 

Then there was an accident. A mask; a murder; a mistake. A snarky detective who was meant to be another in a long list of flings and instead in no time flat had flipped their relationship backwards and pulled something out of Peter he thought had died a long time ago: a flutter in the chest, a twinge in the gut, a warmth in his voice he couldn’t quite hide. He left Juno’s office with the Death Mask and with something else — maybe a death wish, he mused, but maybe… maybe, for the first time in a long time, belief.

Then there was a train heist, and Peter resolved not to let this man get to him, not now when life had taught him so much about the kind of trouble putting faith into relationships that don’t yet exist could get him into, but… Juno was insufferable. He was whiny, he was rude, he had no self-respect, and… and every time he glared at Peter, it made Peter want to laugh and kiss him senseless. 

There was a day where it all went wrong. Miasma. There was torture for weeks, and through it all there were little moments. They were both too tired to stand and too shell-shocked to sleep; so they leaned on each other and rested as best as they could. Peter had no choice but to be bare, to be himself, and in the process he found only someone who was willing to be just as bare back, and the feeling was… incomparable. A bliss within all the chaos that kept him bright eyed and kept a thin smile under his skin ready to present itself when he could tell Juno needed it.

Then there was an escape, a panic, a moment where Peter realised that — for the second time ever in his life — he could not disappear, not yet. There was a bomb; an explosion; a half-second in which Peter thought he’d lost it all again.

But he didn’t.

And when they made it back to the hotel that night, Peter didn’t have the energy left to pretend not to care anymore. It all came flooding back — the feeling of flutters, the tingling he got in his lips when Juno looked at him a certain way, just before he grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him in.

They were together, in bed. Juno was kissing him hard enough to hurt, his fingers twisted in his hair. Peter let his hand slip downwards, grazing against the skin until it disappeared under Juno’s pant line.

Juno broke from the kiss and breathed out a shaky sigh, “_ Nureyev…” _

Peter felt himself freeze over. A second later, Juno’s hands brushed the side of his face, “Hey. Hey, Nureyev, you okay?”

He blinked. Then he laughed softly. “Yes. It’s just… it’s been a long, long time since I heard my name—like that.”

Juno’s brow creased, his eye genuinely worried, “I won’t do it again if you don’t want. I’m like— the queen of having bad associations with things, I—”

“No,” Peter smiled. He leaned down to kiss Juno’s nose, his cheeks, “No, it’s— it’s… good. Wonderful. Do it again.”

There was a pause for a second where Peter could see that Juno was still worried. Then he laughed softly, “Give me a reason to, Peter,” he whispered, his hips shifting where Peter’s hand was, still, and Peter grinned.

“That, my dear detective, I can do.”

And they went up in flames together, the two of them — kisses that pulled deep in Peter’s chest and a closeness he didn’t think he’d ever felt before, and the whole time there was Juno — _ Peter… Peter, oh my God, yes…. Peter, please — _ and they came together with each other’s name on their lips.

Juno laughed as Peter rolled off of him to the side of the bed. His hand found Peter’s in the sheets between them and lazily pulled their hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to their conjoined fingers. Peter was buzzing. His heart was humming in his chest and this was when it happened last time — this was when it was supposed to happen, right? So Peter let it all fall out of him in a breath, “Call me a fool if you like…”

There was a half second after he said it that Juno didn’t respond, and Peter felt himself freeze up.

_ But you’re a thief at the end of the day, not a romantic like I know you’d like to believe. _

And then Juno breathed out as well, rolling over in the sheets to press their bodies together, and he smiled. “If you’re a fool, that makes two of us.”

All Peter could do was laugh. He felt it crash over him at once: exhaustion, the kind he only let himself feel when he was truly relaxed. Juno kissed his chest, huddled up around him, and Peter felt himself begin to doze off. The only thing on his mind as the conscious world slipped away from him was that this one he’d get to keep. This one, finally, this man, he’d get to keep.

_ And if you really keep believing that, Pete, one of these days, you are going to get very badly hurt. _


	3. Chapter 3

When Peter Nureyev woke up the next morning, he knew he was alone.

He didn’t know how he did, he just… knew. He lay in bed for a long moment with his eyes shut and tried to calm his racing heart, swallow down the anxiety. _ It’s only a paranoid thought _ , he thought, _ it’s not true _ . And yet it was a few minutes before he could turn over and look, and well before then the lack of sound or heat behind him had made his heart sink deep into his chest.

Peter rolled flat onto his back and looked at the spot where Juno was last night.

He couldn’t even cry.

He felt thousands of pounds heavy. Heavy with the weight of it all; all the nights like this, but at least in all of them he’d never been  _ Peter _ , he’d never been truly and honestly himself. He’d never… believed before. That this time things would be different.

Peter laughed at the ceiling, a mocking, horrible sound. He’d really believed that  _ this time _ things would be different.

He had visited Brahma again. Once.

Ten years ago. He had been in the area on a heist and couldn’t believe the old place was still intact. The fallout from New Kinshasa’s reign on Brahma coming to an end had been messy, he’d heard — violent protests, a surge of crime, but… altogether for the better. Once charged with having to find their own way to peace the people of Brahma, good at heart, found ways to lift each other up. To not have peace come at the cost of continually enforced perfection. With his quick fingers it hadn’t been hard — track down the dignitary, find the way through the trail of paperwork to his son, follow that to a current place of residence and…

The door had opened and there he was: Quince Blythe. A man in his late 20s, a blond beard completing the picture frame around his face, his eyes shooting open as he realised—

“Peter—”

“It’s me!” Peter had rushed into him, hugging him tight, “I came back! I told you I would, didn’t I? I told you that even if I had no family I’d still come back for you and I  _ did _ .”

He had released him, holding him at arm’s length and grinning. Quince had stared back at him, blinking like he couldn’t quite believe that Peter was really here, “Peter…”

A voice from the other room, behind them. “Who is it, honey?”

Peter had frozen over. His hands had fallen off of Quince’s shoulders.

Quince had paused for a second, still staring at him, then half turned back towards wherever the voice had come from, “It’s nobody, don’t worry!” 

Peter’s shoulders had slumped, “Quince…” 

“Peter… what are you  _ doing  _ here? You’re  _ The Peter Nureyev. _ If anybody sees you here they’ll  _ shoot  _ you! The-the number of creds on your head is the highest bounty a planet in this system has ever set.” 

“But…” 

Quince had stared at him, his pretty eyes full of genuine worry. Worry and confusion, like he couldn’t for a second understand why there would possibly be anything here for Peter to return to. The gaze remained for a moment longer, and then Quince’s face fell. “Oh. Oh,  _ Peter _ …”

Quince had sighed, wiping his hand with his face, “Peter… we were seventeen. That was ten years ago. You can’t really have expected me to wait all that time, could you? I mean, surely you haven’t… there’s been…  _ others _ , haven’t there?” 

There hadn’t. Not at that point. Peter had blinked and tears splashed against the inside of his glasses. It wasn’t even broken-heartedness as much as it was humiliation, now. At recognising how childish he had been, at feeling the last ten years’ worth of wistfulness unravel in a spool of foolish fantasy. So much of his life had been that: fantasy, and when it boiled down to it, the reality was that there was nothing much there. 

“Peter… I—” 

“Honey?  _ Who  _ are you talking to?” 

Quince had sighed, and turned back around, “I said it was nobody, okay? I’m coming! Listen, Peter—”

But when Quince had turned back to face him, he was standing alone in his doorway. Peter Nureyev, the Man who was Nobody, was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [concierge voice take 2] i hope you enjoyed this tale. if you did, please consider leaving kudos, comments, or checking out my other content. thank uuuuuu


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